Robert Wallace Paolinelli
705 Vallejo St.
San Francisco, CA
94133
415-986-8026
GOODBYE ALEXEI
or
COSMIC COLUMBUS
BY
ROBERT WALLACE PAOLINELLOI
What is about to be related, fantastic as it may seem,
began on a late rainy morning while I was sitting in the Caffe Puccini, a cafe
not far from where I live, in San Francisco.
The rain was pouring down and, frankly, I had no desire to go out into
the storm; so I bought a second cup of
coffee and picked up a discarded morning newspaper and let my eyes fall on the
captions of the articles which were enough to convince me that I did not want
to read the articles, so I searched through the pages until I found the
crossword puzzle; and, pulling out my
pen and lighting up another cigarette, I began the puzzle with "A
palindromic season in Soissons."
Well, to begin with, I couldn't remember what palindromic meant, but I
knew that Soissons was something French.
I read the acrosses and the downs and entered what I could, but soon
grew tired and put the crossword puzzle away, drank some more of my rapidly
cooling coffee and stared out of the window at the rain.
A man walked by; I
took notice of him immediately because he was so very tall and robust and had a
large beard and did not have an umbrella and I could see that he was thoroughly
drenched. He looked like a drowned bear. Poor fellow, I thought, silently
commiserating with him, he needs a hot cup of coffee. The tall stranger entered the cafe, walked to
the counter leaving a wet trail; and as
he stood ordering, a pool of dripping rainwater collected around his
shoes. With coffee in hand, he turned
and looked about. The cafe was
crowded; I happend to be sitting at a
table with two empty chairs, however; he
spied the table and came straight towards it.
"May I
join you?" he asked with a heavy accent.
"Of course, please do," I responded. He put his coffee down, took off his coat and
hat, then sat. He sweetened his coffee,
then, parting his long moustache, took a long, slurping drink, then taking the
cup from his lips he let out a long, satisfying, "Ah," followed by,
"now that is a good cup of caffe latte.
I came to the right place and none to soon. I don't mind the rain, but the cold wind
chilled me to the bone," he said, looking directly at me. "Yes, it's good coffee," I said, trying
to be friendly to this wet and cold stranger sharing my table.
He reached
into several of his pockets with his big hands;
I couldn't help noticing the hair on his fingers and the large gold ring
on the index finger of his right hand.
It reminded me of a class ring.
Not finding what he was looking for in his shirt or pants pockets, he
searched in his rain-soaked coat. A look
of futility came over his face.
"Apparently,
I left my cigarettes back in my room.
Would it be asking too much if I took one of yours?"
"Not at
all," I said, pushing my pack across the table, "help yourself, and here's
a light," wherewith I struck a match and lit his cigarette. "You are very kind, sir, to share both
your table and your cigarettes. Allow me
to introduce myself: I am Alexei
Sherbatskoy. I have just moved into this neighborhood," so saying, he extended
his hand cross the table. "And I am
Anthony Richmond. How do you do, Mr.
Sherbatskoy?"
His handshake
was firm but not overpowering, as it can be with big men. I appreciated his immediate openness; after all, we were both trapped (as it were)
by the rain which continued to fall.
"You
speak excellent English, but with a strong Slavic accent; and with the name,
Alexei Sherbatskoy, I've deduced you are a Russian, sir," I said.
He
smiled. "Half right. I am a Ukrainian. You know Ukrainia?"
"Only by
reputation. Are you from Kiev?"
"Exactly!"
he said enthusiastically. "How do
you know Kiev?"
I had to admit
to him that I knew of Kiev from the Ravel orchestration of the Moussorgsky
composition, Pictures at an Exhibition, in which one of the most famous pieces
is The Great Gate at Kiev.
"Aha!
Moussorgsky--you know his music?
Wonderful! I love that work--but
I prefer the original piano version. And
Ravel? Well, he did a good job in
transposing it for orchestra--yet the piano score...delectable..." and he
started singing, "La, la la, lala," the melody from The Great Gate at
Kiev, in a loud, basso voice, so loud, in fact, that people started staring at
him--at us. But my new-found companion
ignored the stares of the other customers, if, indeed, he was aware of them at
all.
He had a fine
voice; I had to admit that; and when he had finished singing, I applauded
and said, "Bravo."
"You like
music. I know. Are you a musician, sir?"
"No; not a musician. But you are correct: I do like music, in fact, I especially like
Russian composers," and I rattled off half a dozen of my favorites, to
which Alexei nodded. And when I had
finished my litany of composers, he sat very thoughtful for a moment, then
frowned and said:--
"But you
have left out one of our greatest:
Alexander Scriabin. There was a
genius, pure genius--and not really appreciated now-a-days, as he should
be."
I felt nothing
in particular about Mr. Scriabin, not being familiar with his music and said
so.
Alexei jumped
up. "But he had a deep soul, a
powerful love of life. Have you never
heard his Symphony Number Three: The
Divine Poem?"
"Never."
He sat
down. "Mr. Anthony Richmond, you, I
know, love music; I can feel it; but until you have heard Scriabin's Third Symphony,
there will be a great gap in your musical life."
Admittedly, I
was taken aback by his statement, for truly, I love music and have attended
hundreds of concerts and have spent many, many hours listening to recorded
music, reading the lives of the composers and so on; and then, to have this presumptuous stranger
tell me that until I heard the music of Scriabin there would be a 'great gap'
in my musical life--I was offended.
"Well,"
I said, "have you ever heard the music of Roy Harris?" I said a bit resentful of the slight I felt.
He pursed his
lips, squinted his eyes, and with his big hand rubbed his bearded chin. "Roy Harris, Roy Harris--hmm. I'm afraid I must admit total ignorance of
this man. Is he a popular music
composer?'
"Mr.
Sherbatskoy, until you have heard one of Harris' symphonies, there will be a
great gap in your musical life. He is a
great American composer: symphonies,
concerti, chamber music, songs; he was a
teacher," I boasted rather smugly.
"Ho, ho,
ho!" he burst out. "I
capitulate and accept this new gap. You
are an outstanding fellow Mr.Anthony Richmond.
You must tell me where I can hear this Mr. Harris' music."
I answered
immediately: "I have several
recordings in my vast record collection."
He burst out
into laughter again. "I do believe
I have offended you--and don't deny it, sir;
please, I accept full responsibility.
Do accept my apology by allowing me to buy you a coffee in
recompense. Please."
"Very
well. I accept your apology and I'll
have another caffe latte, thank you."
And feeling
his sincere contriteness, and wanting to reciprocate, I reached into my pocket
and pulled out an unopened pack of cigarettes.
"And with our fresh coffees, we can smoke and continue our most
interesting conversation."
"Agreed,"
he answered, then raised his great body and strode to the counter. When he returned he had not only two coffees,
but also, two pastries.
"I do
hope you have an appetite, Mr. Richmond.
These apple turnovers looked so temptingly delicious, that I could not
resist getting us one each. Ah,
sometimes it is good to have such a rain;
it brings strangers together and makes the heaviness of life
lighter," he said almost somberly (yet, oddly) cheerfully.
We ate and
drank in silence for a few minutes and watched the rain fall without let
up. We smoked and became deeply
engrossed watching the rain, the slowly moving traffic and the people walking
under an assortment of umbrellas. I was
struck by a very large, yellow umbrella being carried by an old Chinese
woman. "Look at the sun in the
rain," I said, pointing to the old woman who was now directly in front of
us at our window table.
"Ah, I
see what you mean. You have a poetic
soul, Mr. Richmond."
"Thank
you. I think you must have one yourself,
Mr. Sherbatskoy."
"You are
very kind--but your image: 'the sun in the rain,' now that is a poetic soul
speaking. If you had not said what you
had imagined, I would never have given voice to such an image. No, my new friend, it is you who are the true
poet. I?...well, I enjoy poets and
poetry, but my soul--no--not poetic--though I feel things deeply, one might
even say, poetically. But my soul is too
analytical. You see, I am a
radio-astronomer by training; but now I
teach physics and mathematics. There is
no poetry there. Only science, cold,
objective."
"How
interesting. I'm also a teacher."
"Really? What do you teach?"
"English
to foreigners. I'm an ESL teacher."
"Yes,
yes, I know ESL. Well, that makes things
clear. You are a lover of language--a
poet. Science and poetry are two
irreconcilable fields which can never be in the same place at the same time--if
you understand my meaning. But that's
life," he said, throwing up his hands as if to dismiss the subject.
I didn't really
wish to pursue the subject of the irreconcilable differences between science
and poetry, but I was curious about his having said he was a radio astronomer.
"Mr.
Sherbatskoy, you said you were trained in radio-astronomy. Why are you not teaching or working in your
original field?"
He looked at
me a long, scrutinizing time before he answered; his face was hard, but I intuited the
hardness was not directed at me for having asked, but rather a great mulling of
something. Then he smiled.
"Ah, this
day is conducive to story telling; and
since you have asked a question out of pure curiosity, I shall tell you a
story. I've not talked about my former
career in a long while. You really want
to know? Well, my rainy day companion, I
shall tell you--but if it sounds too fantastic, just tell me and I shall stop
and change the subject."
"I'm
always ready for the fantastic. I'm all
ears." I sat back and waited.
"First,
you must know that I once worked at the Kharkov Radio-Astronomy Institute in
Moscow. I was a younger man, then,
determined to make a name for myself. I
worked hard, I also studied English and German and other foreign languages on
my own. I have a natural affinity for
languages. They come easily to
me--nonetheless--I studied so I could read foreign scientific journals. When not actually at work, I still worked
studying languages. I must make it clear
to you that I am a firm believer in extraterrestrial life. I am convinced there is life on other
planets, in other solar systems. Do you
believe this?"
"I'm
rather a skeptic about extraterrestrial life;
but I am willing to hear you out."
"And so
you shall; for I have proof!" he
said, slapping his hand on the table and rattling our coffee cups. "Proof, I tell you; but no one wanted to accept my evidence--no
one. In the course of numerous,
independent tests, I detected mysterious sources of radio emissions near the
star, Altair. At first I was not certain
of what I was detecting. But upon
further analysis, after I had filtered out all other sounds, I discovered a
repeated pattern and, therefore, I could only conclude that some beings from
outer space were sending variable signals to us. When I was certain of my findings, I went
immediately to my chief. He heard me
out--of course, he was pleasant enough, then dismissed the idea saying my
analysis of the data was faulty, that beings on other planets were the realm of
science fiction and that I should confine myself, in future, to our work. Can you imagine what a blow that was to my young
ego, to my high noble standards of professional comportment? In my enthusiasm I buttoned-holed my
colleagues. That was when my eyes were
first opened to the narrowness of my chief and my colleagues and the
system. Well, I had to stop my tests and
go about my business; but my curiosity
could not be stopped. In my spare time,
with parts from discarded instruments, I secretly built a sophisticated radio
and continued on my own--in secret--which was very dangerous, for I could have
been accused of being a spy, if caught.
After many trials and errors, I was able to establish that the radio
signals were not random, but repeated, definite signals. Can you imagine? The first human to hear the radio signals
from beings in another solar system!"
His voice grew
intenser, he gripped the edge of the table with both hands and a look of
contorted fervor came over his face, a look which frightened me, and for a
moment I was sorry I'd engaged him in conversation, Was he really a madman? I became unsure of him now.
Nevertheless,
I continued to sit there waiting for him to continue. He let go of the table. His face relaxed and he smiled. "You don't believe me. I know.
But what I have said is true."
"On the
contrary, I neither believe you nor disbelieve you. Thus far you have only told me a story and
have presented me with no evidence."
"Aha, now
you speak like a scientist. I begin to
like you more and more. I Shall give you
evidence; but first let me finish my
story."
"Please
do. My curiosity has been
stimulated. Continue."
"Well--let
me see--where was I? Ah, yes:"--
He lowered his
voice and looked both to the left and to the right. "I was able to receive radio signals and
my re-analysis and computations proved they could not have been random
signals. It was fantastic. I had to act quickly, so I sent programmed
signals out--at great threat to my life.
I would have been shot.
Nevertheless, all that aside--it was fantastic. So again I went to my chief, presented my
evidence and told him I had sent replies, but he would have none of
it!" And Alexei slapped the table
with his hand, again rattling the cups.
"He not only did not believe me, he put me on sick leave, told me I
was lucky he wasn't going to turn me over to the police for spying, and made me
report to a psychiatric clinic. I
understood; I was one step ahead of them
in their game of what was going on to discredit me, so I feigned great stress
and pretended to the psychiatrist that I had deluded myself. I duly repented my errors--what else would a
good party member do?, and asked for guidance from our ideological branch. It worked--as I knew it would. And do you know what happened? I shall tell you: I was given a fourteen day recuperative leave
in the Crimea and afterwards was told to report back to my work place. So I took advantage of the vacation, enjoyed
myself and reported back. My chief
welcomed me like the prodigal son, but he did not allow me to continue working
in my former position. No; he told me my department needed to prepare
for an international radio-astronomy conference, to be held in Vienna in three
months and since I knew both English and German, so well, I was to translate
certain papers into each language, papers to be delivered at the conference by
my colleagues, and for publication and distribution among the conferees. I jumped at the chance; for from the moment he broached the subject,
I knew what I was going to do. I threw
myself into the translations. I worked
day and night. At times I was exhausted,
but I had to show great effort and enthusiasm.
Two weeks before the conference was to begin, I handed in my
translations--superb ones, I might add.
My chief and colleagues were pleased at my fine work, and, as a reward,
you might say, I was included in the delegation as an
interpreter-translator--as I knew I would be.
So, Mr. Anthony Richmond, to make a long story short, after twenty-four
hours in Vienna, I fled my hotel in the middle of the night, went to the
American Embassy and asked for political asylum. A Soviet scientist defector, I knew, I would
be a welcome candidate for asylum. After
a lot of rigamarole, I was flown to the states and after a debriefing, I was given
a chance to be free. But, alas, even
after I had been resettled, I could not get a position in my field. So now I am a physics teacher to indifferent
freshmen who don't know the difference between alpha and omega. There, now you have my story."
"Did you
receive a reply to the signals you sent out?" I asked naively.
"Not yet. You see, Altair is approximately sixteen
light years away, and the signal I sent will take sixteen years to reach, what
I think are very sensitive receivers.
I'm still waiting. Sixteen years
ago I received, then sent out my own signal.
Those sixteen years will be up soon and then I shall know more."
"So
you've not confirmed anything," I said, feeling a bit disappointed.
"Not
confirmed? Of course I've
confirmation--a whole box of irrefutable calculations. I knew whereof I speak."
"If
that's so, why haven't you shared your discovery with someone here in
America. Surely someone would help
you."
Alexei looked
at me with hard eyes. "Share my
discovery? Why that's
preposterous...why...why...I...I could never reveal this without being completely
in charge myself." He was
emphatic. "Moreover, knowing well
how the scientific community works, I would, first of all, be discredited, then
someone--there is always someone who would use my data to make their own
calculations and proclaim himself the harbinger of interstellar communication
with an alien race. No, Mr. Anthony
Richmond, I cannot share my work with anyone!
Do you understand?"
I understood
one thing: this Alexei Sherbatskoy was
either a genius or a madman and I couldn't then make up my mind which. But I decided I wanted to get away from
him. I looked at my watch and feigned
amazement. "Oh, I didn't realize
how late it was. I must meet a friend
for lunch," I said, rising and putting on my raincoat. "I've had a most delightful time, Mr.
Sherbatskoy." So saying, I extended
my hand. He took it. "And thank you for the cigarettes and
your company. Perhaps we will meet
again. I like this place and I like you,
sir."
"Perhaps
we'll meet again. I come here
often. Well, I must go--and thank you
for the coffee and pastry." He let
go of my hand, I picked up my umbrella
and, the rain notwithstanding, went out into the storm and headed for my
apartment a few blocks away.
II
A week later,
with the air warm, the day bright with a brilliant sun in a perfectly blue sky,
and, it being Saturday, I decided I would go fishing. I walked to the Embarcadero, found a spot to
my liking near one of the piers, readied my gear, baited my hooks, cast out my
line, then sat down on my folding stool and contemplated the serenity of the
bay and gazed at some sail boats moving lazily thereon.
I was not five
minutes in this most relaxed state when I felt a nibble, then a stronger one,
then a jerk. I pulled up on the rod and
knew by the feel of it that I'd caught something big. I reeled in the line until my leader broke
the surface and, to my pleasant surprise, I saw a fat perch wiggling. Hauling in the flapping fish, I unhooked it
and put it into my bucket.
A good pound
or so, I thought, as I rebaited my hook and cast out again. Well, it was just my day; a rare one--when no sooner did my line hit
the water I had another strike! Within an
hour I had six fat perch in my bucket and it was not yet eleven a.m. I packed my gear and treated myself to a taxi
ride home. After having cleaned my fish,
I took a shower, dressed and decided to go to my favorite Chinese restaurant to
celebrate my fisherman's luck. The fish
I would save for dinner.
The restaurant
was not crowded and sitting at a table, whom did I see (and no place to hide)?
none other than Alexei Sherbatskoy, who saw me, waved, stood up and called to
me:--
"Anthony
Richmond. Hello. Welcome to my humble table," he said,
gesturing for me to take a seat.
What else
could I do? I took Alexei's
out-stretched hand. "Nice to see
you," he said, in a genuinely friendly manner. He addressed a waitress (to my surprise) in
Chinese and she said something back to him, then left, and returned with
two bottles of beer and a huge platter
of steamed clams.
"You are
my guest," he said, "bon appetie." I saw no way out except to comply with my
generous host. Thanking him, I toasted
his good health with a raise of my beer, then dove into the clams with
enthusiasm because madman or not, I happen to like clams, very, very much.
Just as the
last clams were being downed, the waitress arrived with a dish of squid and
greens, a dish of chicken with black mushrooms.
"Dig in," said my host;
and to the waitress he again spoke in Chinese and off she went, returning
with two more beers and a big bowl of steamed rice. My mouth watered; my eyes glowed with delight at the
gastronomic delights spread before us.
"Eat,
eat," said Alexei with rustic enthusiasm.
I lifted my beer. "To your
good health," I said. He lifted his
bottle: "And to yours. Salud!"
He almost drained the bottle and, if one's future health could be gauged
by how long of a drink is drunk in a toast, then I shall enjoy good health for
many years to come. His capacity for
drink was prodigious. By the time we'd
finished our lunch, no less than four empty bottles of beer, a piece, stood on
the table--all four having been drained by the both of us to our good
health. I was tipsy and said so.
"Good,
good. Being a little drunk is good for
the spirit. The world is a cruel place,
Anthony Richmond, and being tipsy takes the edge off, as it is said. One can never be too sure that a rosey life
will always be rosey--so enjoy life while you can."
In my euphoric
state I called him a pessimist.
"Pessimist? Ho, my tipsy friend, quite the contrary, I am
an eternal optimist--otherwise, I would have received the tonsure long ago and
become a monk."
The very idea
of this very hirsute man saying he would have shaved his head and become a monk
made such a funny impression on me that I burst into laughter, loud
guffaws. "A monk! Ha! I
can't even pretend to imagine you a monk, Alexei."
And with a
low, serious, almost hurt voice he asked:
"And why not a monk? I'm a
sensitive, spiritual man; I have suffered
and seen some suffering in my time. Why
would I not be a monk? It's a way of
surrendering one's vanity, one's sense of overblown self-importance and a
monk's life is a noble path. You are a
cynic, Anthony Richmond." His tone
was admonishing and I felt like an ass--and I apologized.
"Alexei,
I am no cynic. I'm drunk and everything
seems funny. I apologize most
sincerely. Forgive me; I know you are a deeply sensitive
man." And I hung my head in true
contrition.
I felt a hand
on my shoulder. It felt heavy, but warm
and comforting. "Anthony
Richmond," he said in a low, forgiving voice, "it takes a man with a
big heart and a kind soul to ask for forgiveness. Look at me," he said, in a commanding
tone. I looked up.
"You are
forgiven. Between men who eat and drink
together--and get drunk--there must always be forgiveness. I, too, am drunk; but not as drunk as you. Come, let's be off. A brisk walk will bring
us a modicum of sobriety, then let's go to the Italian cafe where we met. What do you say? Air, and a good walk and some expresso will
do us some good."
"Only if
you allow me to be the coffee host," I added.
"Agreed. Ah, it is good to eat and drink--maybe even
cry a little. Ah, life is too good,
sometimes, to be true, my friend, too good to be true--in spite--yes, in spite
of everything." He slapped me on
the shoulder. "Smile, Anthony
Richmond--life is short."
We walked all
the way to Coit Tower, down the Filbert Street stairs to the Embarcadero. By the time we reached the docks, I was sober
and being at the docks reminded me of all that fresh fish in my
refrigerator. "Alexei, I went
fishing this morning. I've got lots of
fresh perch and, well, when we get hungry again, I invite you to eat with
me. What do you say?"
"Ho! A fine idea.
You are a delightful fellow. Yes,
as you say, when we get hungry again.
Yes, yes, absolutely, and I shall stop and buy a bottle of vodka
and--what kind of wine do you like? No
matter; we shall get a fine bottle. Aha!
See what I told you: sometimes
life is too good to be true."
"But why
do you say that--and say it almost joyfully?"
"Should I
say it sadly?"
"No; but why say life is too good to be
true?"
"Just
because it is so. When I first received
indications of our friends in the stars, I became convinced that life here on
earth was a dream, a giant, narrow-minded dream kept alive by man's inability
to see wondrous things alive at the tip of his nose! Then I became aware of how some pseudo-sophisticated
people become bored--or so they feign--with what they are eating or become
pretentious about wine, for example:
vintages, smelling the cork and all of that rot--utter nonsense of false
concern about things which need not be considered. Life is mysterious enough without all the
pretentious protocols about basics. Man
drinks to forget his cares, to lift his spirits. What does it matter where the grape was
grown? It's the quality of the
intoxication that counts. Don't you
see? The reality, the truth is always
with us; only we mask it in protocol,
ritual and rites which are meaningless.
Is that clear? Life is
spontaneous, renewed every second, and society bogs it down with its exclusions
of things, or groups or classes at the exclusion of what really is
important. That kind of attitude is
anti-life and, stupid."
"Well
I..."
"It
doesn't matter. It is only words I speak
and I'm getting tired of talking. Let's
go for our coffee. Shall we not?"
I was too
muddled by what he'd said to carry on an intelligent rebuttal--if rebuttal were
needed. So we quickened our pace and
headed back to North Beach and the Caffe Puccini.
With a double
espresso down my throat, I was feeling good again. Alexei had bought a newspaper and was reading
some article intently. The cafe was crowded, There wasn't an empty chair to be had. We were sitting at a back table on an
upholstered bench, under the large photograph of Maestro Giacomo Puccini
himself.. I spied two charming women
with cups in hand looking for a place to sit.
I nudged Alexei. "Alexei,
those two women are looking for a place to sit.
Shall we invite them to our table?"
"A
capital idea. Ladies," he called
out, "over here; there's room on
the bench." He rose and bowed
slightly and waved them over. They
smiled, huddled tete-a-tete, then, holding their coffees high, made their way
through the maze of chairs and crowded tables.
"Thank
you," said one, a petite, chestnut-haired woman, wearing a long black coat
buttoned all the way up. She wore a tan,
knitted beret on her head and had a friendly, cheery smile which I couldn't
help admiring; her companion was tall,
about five nine, Rubenesque in build;
she had tightly curled red hair and a soft, almost sad face.
"Welcome
to the kingdom of two lonely bachelors only waiting for an opportunity to
entertain such lovely creatures as yourselves.
Allow me to introduce myself and my friend: I am Alexei Sherbatskoy, at your service, and
this is my friend, Anthony Richmond--also at your service, I'm sure," said
Alexei with panache.
I was a little
embarrassed by his elaborate introduction--(but really I was envious that he
could stand out so boldly, whereas I am a little shy about such things). However, I warmed to the occasion, and,
taking courage from my bold companion, I also stood. "It is our honor and pleasure to have
you share our table," I said, as urbanely as possible, and proffered my
hand; and as each took it, I bowed at
the waist and kissed each hand, then sank back into my seat, impressed with
myself for having done something I'd never done before.
The women
introduced themselves as Lily (the petite one) and Sharon, the redheaded,
Rubenesque woman who was staring at Alexei most curiously.
"Monsieur
Richmond and myself met under similar circumstances," said Alexei,
"the cafe was crowded, as it is today, and I joined him at his table and
we became fast friends. What a
remarkable coincidence. Don't you think
so?"
The women
looked at each other not knowing what to say, and I was concerned that Alexei's
charm and exuberance was, perhaps, intimidating, thus the women's silence.
"Are you
guys for real?" said the petite Lily.
There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice, which did not escape me, nor
go unnoticed by quick-witted Alexei,who had resat himself.
"Most honored
lady," said Sherbatskoy, in a most dignified manner, addressing the one
called Lily, "obviously you find fault in our most polite manner; this new age of chic casualness, has,
perhaps, numbed the finer points of human relationships in you. Mr. Richmond and I are true gentlemen--not
quite knights in shining armor--there's still a bit of the rogue in both of
us; nonetheless, gentlemen of the first
water, who pay court to the gentler sex, by treating them, as every gentleman
should, with utmost deference. Had we
been men of the new, casual, morality types, we would not have even considered
getting your attention and offering you a place to sit, then introducing
ourselves as we have done. Mr. Anthony
Richmond, my boon colleague in adventure, stood up, kind ladies, took each of
your dainty hands and pressed them to his lips as only a gentleman of the old
school would have done. Now I ask you in
all good conscience, does our gentlemanly comportment deserve the suspicions
you harbor and the derision which I heard in your voice? After all, we are harmless and honorable men
with honorable intentions."
What happened
next I could not believe, but let me explain:
As he spoke, one of those silences which happen in noisy places
coincided with his beginning to speak to Lily, and Alexei had not lowered his
voice; and with the cyclical quiet,
everyone stopped to listen to him. I
only became aware of the silence when I heard the first "Bravo!" and
the beginning of intermittent applause; for now the entire Caffe Puccini was an
appreciative audience to my "colleague in adventure's" monologue.
"I wish
they would have invited me," said a
woman's voice nearby.
"You male
chauvinist creep!" shouted a woman who stood up. She was dressed in one of those pseudo-World
War Two bombardier jackets, the leather of which has been processed to look old
and well worn; she wore loose, black,
harem-like balloon pants which tapered at her ankles.
"What a
bunch of medieval drivel. Guys like you
think soft talking a woman with all that malarkey is cool--well it isn't--and
I'm damn tired of still hearing women referred to as the 'gentler sex.' Haven't you heard? We've had a revolution and we won!" she
blasted, pointing a finger to herself.
By this time
Alexei was on his feet, His tallness
stood taller; he held his right arm
across his midsection; in his hand was a
burning cigarette, four fingers of his left hand were in his jacket pocket and
his thumb was sticking out. He looked
straight at the vituperative women's libber, with an angelic smile on his
face. He was the epitome of
majesty. I had to hand it to him: he could stand his own under any conditions.
The hush in
the cafe was stunning; even the
employees behind the counter craned their necks to see what was going on; new comers at the door walked in quietly, as
if they were interlopers at some dramatic presentation.
"And
another thing," the irate woman went on to say, "kissing a woman's
hand has got to be one of the greatest farces of the ages. What shit!"
Alexei waited
patiently for her to finish; and when
she did finally shut up, he began:--
"Ladies
and gentlemen," he said dramatically," I was not aware that my
private conversation with these dear ladies, had been overheard by you
customers of this fine cafe," he said, turning and nodding to Sharon and
Lily, then turned back to the customers.
"And, further, I am slightly shocked, nevertheless, mildly amused,
also, that such sentiments and actions as have been expressed are now suddenly
and without provocation, attacked from across the room. For this, ladies and gentlemen, I apologize
for any inconvenience my overheard conversation may have caused any of
you. It is not I who makes a spectacle
of a most private conversation; not I,
but that woman--" and he snapped out his arm from his pocket and pointed
an accusing finger at her, "who has broken the spell of this place and
turned it into a sexual power struggle based on nothing more than a warped
sense of judgmental, self-righteousness--and directed at me and my
colleague," and dropping his arm, turned and gestured to me, then turned
back to his target, dropped his arm and once again, put his hand back into his
pocket.
"Madam,"
he continued, in his well-chosen, evenly spoken words, "if how a man,
causing you no harm, comports himself in front of women so upsets you that you
sling vile epithets at him in a public place, then, you, madam, are more to be
pitied than anything else; and yet, I
regret, as a true gentleman, that something I may have said, or have done, has
upset you so; for that, I humbly apologize," and he bowed his head toward
her.
As Alexei
spoke, the woman with the bombardiers jacket was getting angrier and
angrier; she doubled her fists; her cheeks were puffed out and her face grew
red. She stood as if ready to push
chairs and people aside and go at Alexei;
who had lifted his head, and turning it to the employees behind the bar,
called out, "A coffee to anyone who asks--and come to me for the
bill."
As he turned,
the bombardier-jacketed woman shouted:
"You jerk! You pompous, sanctimonious asshole! You belong in a fucking museum! Come on, Shirley," she said to her
companion, "let's go." She
turned toward the door with Shirley right behind her; at the door she turned. Alexei's back was to her so he did not see
her stick out her middle finger and jab it into the air at him; but I saw it;
however, I had been turned into a consummate gentleman, so I stood up
and said loudly enough for her to hear:
"Toleration
of the crude is the hallmark of a true gentleman, madam."
"Aaggh!"
she shouted at me and disappeared out the door and hurried down Columbus Avenue
with Shirley close behind.
The applause
and cheering went on for at least a full minute. The cups rattled and some people whistled and
approached us, extending their hands and complimenting us. One woman, a charming, silver-haired lady of
about seventy or so, who spoke English with a delicately cultured Swedish
accent, took hold of my hand and Alexei's.
"It does an old woman's heart good to know that honorable gentlemen
still exist. May I join you?"
And before
either Alexei or myself knew it, people were pushing their tables and chairs
closer to us; soon it was an arena of
the analysis of the scene which had just taken place.
Our two
original guests huddled next to one another in utter awe of what was going
on. I was thrilled at such instant
celebratedness; but I didn't let it go
to my head. Nevertheless, I took
advantage of it and acted far more urbanely and continental than is natural
with me.
Alexei was
drinking in the attention and the conversation.
He indulged himself by kissing hands and double cheek kisses which he
called "la moda italiana," Italian style. Alicia, one of the expresso makers, came over
with a tally in her hand.
"Sixteen
espressos, five caffe lattes, twelve cappuccinos, comes to forty-one dollars
and forty-five cents, please," she said, laying the tally in front of him.
"Excellent,"
he said. Reaching into his back pocket,
he pulled out his wallet, and, taking out a fifty dollar bill handed it to her
saying, "keep the change."
"Con
mucho gusto," she said.
"And
here," I said, pulling a fiver out of my wallet and handing it to
her. Oh, I felt the essence of the hero,
the man-about-town. Women were putting
their arms around my shoulders, I was being pecked on the cheek and the neck by
half a dozen admiring lips. I was
surrounded by the good smells and touches of WOMAN! I was in paradise.
The elderly
Swedish woman and a young man were speaking to Alexei in French. They were having an animated conversation
while at the same time he was carrying on a conversation in German with a
couple standing; and by the few phrases
of German I was able to understand, they were inviting us to some political
rally or other; but I heard him decline
with several "Nein Dankes," and they left.
Gradually the
witnesses, one by one, two by two, left and at the end of three quarters of an
hour later, the Caffe Puccini was half empty.
"Anthony--my
new comrade-in-arms, I salute you.
Please stand" I stood. "I embrace you as a brother." And he took me in a great bear hug of an
embrace and planted a kiss on each of my cheeks as do French generals when
awarding medals for heroism. He released
me and stood back. "'Under the
bludgeoning of chance/My head is bloody, but unbowed,'" he quoted
Invictus.
It occurred to
me suddenly that even if Alexei had his head in the cosmos about
extra-galactical aliens, he was a man of deep honor and dignity, a true gentleman,
kind, happy-go-lucky, very serious but funny and spontaneous, a lover of life
and willing to stand his ground when a showdown was necessary. At that moment I became his true friend, his
student, in a way, his tried and true companion through thick or thin.
"And
Alexei, I salute you and embrace you in brotherhood and perpetual
solidarity," and with my five foot seven inches of height, I pulled up as
straight and as dignified as I could be, reached out and embraced him warmly,
then reaching up, I pulled his head down and through his beard planted a French
general's kiss on his hairy cheeks.
Lily and
Sharon stood up. "What are you
guys, a couple of fags?" said Sharon, tossing her coat over her
shoulders. 'Let's get away from here,
Lil," and off they went.
Alexei and I
looked at each other for a moment then burst into laughter. And through our laughter we understood the
depth of our honorable alliance, in spite of the crassness of the world.
"Whenever
you're hungry," I said, "remember, I've got all that fish in my
frig."
"Capital,
capital. It's exactly what we need. Come, first to the liquor store, then off we
go. For all of this excitement has had a
decided effect on my appetite, Anthony Richmond.
III
I fried the
fish and put on some rice while Alexei sat in my front room deeply engrossed in
a Roy Harris symphony I had spun for him on my stereo.
On the kitchen
table was a bottle of vodka Alexei had bought, and in the frig was a bottle of
wine, selected by Alexei. We'd already
had a couple of snorts of the Finnish vodka and my head was spinning--but not
so much that I couldn't concentrate on my cooking and, at the same time, on the
beautiful English horn solo of the Harris symphony coming to me from the next
room.
I truly
appreciated Alexei's openness and ability to say he didn't know something and
to apologize if he rubbed me the wrong way, and, his generosity was
overwhelming. When we were at the liquor
store he wanted to buy me several bottles of vodka and wine. That's the kind of man he is.
After the night
of our fish fry and more music of American composers, Alexei and I became bosom
buddies who went to the Caffe Puccini often, and to concerts and for long walks
which were always filled with deep conversations on the nature of things.
He even
invited me to a faculty cocktail party, where I met his academic colleagues who
thought highly of him. The faculty
gathering, for me, was a bit boring;
I've my own colleagues who have similar functions; nevertheless, these functions do have their
positive sides, for at the faculty cocktail party I was introduced to a faculty
member, a teacher of chemistry and physics, in fact, an office mate of
Alexei's.
She was a tall
beauty, almost five ten, who looked like a copy of an ancient bas-relief of the
Nymph Leucothea, I had seen at the Lateran Museum in Rome--and she spoke with a
delightful Texas accent. Her hair was
the color of the desert and she wore a subtle, though nonetheless intoxicating
scent, which had me quietly drawing in that scent with deep, silent,
inhalations.
Emily Warren
was her name, and she hailed from Witchita Falls, Texas, had studied in Austin,
Cambridge and M.I.T. she was pleasant
and we hit it off immediately--and in spite of our divergent heights, left
together, along with Alexei who suggested we all go to his place and listen to
Scriabin. We agreed.
Alexei's
apartment had a small kitchen, a very large front room, which he called his
studio, and a medium sized, sparsely furnished bedroom in which were a chest of
drawers, a chair and a single wooden bed which Alexei said he had made himself
to accommodate his size.
Everything in
his apartment was neat and orderly--except his desk, which was piled high with
books and notebooks and graphs and paper and scientific journals in half a
dozen languages. His studio had plants,
too; they hung from the ceiling, were on
shelves, near the window and next to a large leather easy chair was an avocado
tree, about five feet tall, slender, and with deep green leaves. He said
he had planted the seed after having eaten the tasty avocado.
By his desk
was a personal computer and next to the computer was a tape deck with two large
speakers.
After we had
settled in with coffee and some delicious anise cookies, he played for us three
Scriabin symphonies, one after another, with only a short
"intermission" to refill the coffee cups and to go to the bathroom.
Listening to
the music in that almost monastic quiet of Alexei's apartment, made the
beautiful music even more beautiful and I was touched deeply by it; and suddenly I began to cry.
"Little,
brother," he called out to me, "are you okay?"
I wiped my
eyes and looked up. Emily walked over,
too, and asked after me.
"I'm
fine, fine. It's only...well, the music,
it has moved me to tears."
"Ho,
ho!" shouted Alexei. "You see
what I told you? Scriabin had a deep
soul--and it has connected with your soul.
I knew you would like him.
Anthony Richmond, very few people would allow themselves to be moved by
such music. Consider yourself a finely
tuned instrument-soul in the great orchestra of life."
"Emily,
you see the power of good music?" he said to her. "If only scientists could move people
with their theories as does fine music."
"They're
not the same, Alexei," she responded, as she returned to her seat. "Music is pure sound, unseeable,
untouchable, transient. Scientific
theories are explanations of observable phenomena or based on calculations and
experimentation."
"Spoken
like a true scientist, Emily. I agree
with you--however--would it not be thrilling if our students, for example,
could be as moved when I expound on thermodynamics or the mysteries of pi? Yes, yes, I know; they are not the same thing. Nevertheless, one can be an idealist,"
"Alexei,"
she said, scooting out to the edge of her chair, "your idealism is too
pure for your own good. The world is
what it is, and nothing is going to change it;
not music, not science--not even idealism."
"Why you
sound like a cynic, Emily. I never
expected to hear such a remark from you."
"I'm not
a cynic. I'm just as much an idealist as
you--but I don't go crying in my beer.
God, the way you talk sometimes makes me want to scream! Ideals are the realm of dreams. Pragmatism, utility, interests--these are
what move the world."
"Yes; you are a cynic, Emily. But at least you admit to idealism--so there
is still hope for you," he said with a smile on his face.
"Lord
have mercy!" exclaimed Emily.
"You are incorrigible."
"Wait,
wait," I said, "idealism can't ever be realized--but as long as
someone keeps an ideal alive, people can, at least, strive for the ideal--even
if they never make it come true. An
innate aspect of idealism is the struggle to achieve it. And maybe it's better not to achieve the
ideal."
"Why do
men always like to struggle? Anthony,
I'm surprised to hear you say what you just did. Why must we struggle?"
"Because
it's our nature to struggle, When we
reach utopia we get lazy and complaisant."
"Says
you," she retorted. "That's a
fallacious statement because no one, or no culture, to my knowledge or to the
general knowledge, has ever achieved a utopia--so there," she ended,
leaning back in her chair and folding her arms across her chest.
"Brava!"
shouted Alexei.
"Ok,
you've got me there. There's never been
idealism manifest," I continued, "no utopias, but my whole point is
that we should never stop trying for the ideal, otherwise the ideal will
die," I said with deep fervor, for I truly believe that.
"Spoken
like a true idealist, Anthony," said Emily. "I admire your ideals. Alexei," she said, turning to him,
"do you still have some of that excellent dessert muscat wine you served me
last time I was here? All this talk
about idealism makes me crave something sweet and soothing, ha ha," she
ended with a merry laugh.
"Yes. You would like some? Very well.
I shall bring the bottle and three glasses and we can toast to idealism,
pragmatism, utility and the insanity of the civilized world."
That evening
was the beginning of a long and ardent association with Emily. By and by we went out often, we became fond
of each other and gradually fell in love.
Alexei was always part of us, too, for we invited him along many
times. At the end of the semester,
Alexei announced that he was going away for most of the summer--but would not
tell us where, and we did not press him because he told us that when he
returned he would have startling, astounding news. When he said that I assumed he was talking
about his radio signals to Altair--sixteen years before.
IV
"Have you
heard from Alexei?" asked Emily.
"No; have you? I asked back.
"Not a
word. He's got a stack of mail a foot
high on his office desk and there's to be a faculty meeting day after
tomorrow. I've called him--but only that
damn answering machine answers with the same message he recorded before he
left. I've stopped leaving
messages. I'm beginning to worry,
Anthony. Will you go over and ask his
landlady if she's heard anything? And
give me a call if you find him. Okay,
honey?" said her mellifluous voice over the telephone.
Of course I
would, for I was as concerned about our friend as she. I walked over to his place and rang his door
bell; I knocked loudly, too, on his
door. No answer. I decided to ring his landlady's bell to ask
if she had heard anything.
I was on my
way downstairs when I heard the street door open and a familiar voice say,
"Be careful; don't drop those
boxes; the contents are delicate." It was Alexei!
"Alexei!
I shouted. "Welcome back. Where have you been? Emily and I were beginning to worry about
you."
His eyes lit
up. "Ah, my little brother! Good to see you," he said, as he let a
cab driver go ahead of him on the stairs.
The driver had four boxes , one piled on top of the other in his
arms. Alexei carried a suitcase and a
duffle bag. "Here, let me help
you," I volunteered, taking the duffle bag from him. The bag was heavy. "What's in here?" I asked.
"Presents."
"For
whom?"
"For you,
Emily, my colleagues."
Paying the driver,
he embraced me, then dropped into his easy chair and let out a deep sigh. "At last, I am home. I have begun disliking traveling. It is such a tedious task--and I've been in
airplanes for--well, no matter how many hours--they are all equally dull--flying
cocktail lounges. But it's good to be
back. Ha! Anthony, you and Emily thought, perhaps, I'd
fallen off the face of the earth? Well,
my good friend, Alexei Sherbatskoy was ever aware of his friends--but I was so
damnably busy this entire summer..."
"Where
did you go? Where have you been for all
these weeks? And you never wrote."
"Forgive
me, forgive me, I am not a letter
writer--not even picture postcards. As
to where I've been? That must wait. I have a story to tell you Anthony Richmond,
a story, as it is said, that will knock your socks off. Please, help me open some windows this
apartment is too stuffy. I've been gone
so long."
I helped him
open some windows, but that easy chore did not abate my curiosity which was now
excited. However, I knew better than to
press him. I understood Alexei well
enough to know that if he was going to say anything it would be in his own
time. So I waited. Nonetheless, I was happy to have him
back. I telephoned Emily. "He's back. He walked in just a few minutes ago. Alexei," I called out, "Emily wants
to speak to you."
"Emily,
ma petite fleur, how are you? I missed
you. It's good to hear your voice. Of course I'm in good health. Yes, yes, do;
please come over directly. I'll
tell Anthony. Bye bye," and turning
to me said Emily was on her way.
"Let me
help you unpack."
"No, not
necessary. I will leave the bags; they can wait. I just want to sit with a glass of wine after
a hot shower, so, if you will excuse me--make yourself at home and let Emily in
if I'm still in the shower when she gets here," and off he went to his
bedroom.
While he was
showering, and I waited for Emily, I looked at the flight tags on his
baggage. By the abbreviations I saw that
he'd been to Albuquerque, Houston, Miami and San Juan, Puerto Rico. What a curious itinerary, I thought as Emily
rang and let herself in before I could get up.
"Hello,
sweetheart," she said, walking over to me and kissing me on the
cheek. I liked her affectionate
ways. "Where's Alexei? How is he?"
"Right
now he's in the shower and as far as I can tell he's okay and in high
spirits--as usual. He has presents for
us," I said, pointing to the duffle bag, "and he says he's got a
story. And when Alexei says he's got a
story, you know its' going to be too fantastic to believe."
"Don't I
know that--but I'm glad he's back and I'm damned curious about his whereabouts
these past two months," she said, looking at the luggage.
"Alexei
said he wanted to drink some wine when he came out of the shower. I'll get some glasses. You know where he keeps his wine, Emily. Get a bottle of his best," I said.
He came out of
the shower dressed in a long, jade green terry cloth robe that made him look
like an oriental potentate. He was
barefooted and his long hair and beard were flat against his head and
face. He looked fierce, but I knew
better. He embraced Emily, then sat in
his great leather chair. "The
comfort of one's humble abode is priceless.
Please, dear Emily, do pour the wine."
The three of
us drank several toasts to his homecoming and our reunion.
""It
is so good to be back among dear friends.
Do forgive me, both of you, for not writing, but you know how intense I
get. When I was in New Mexico, I thought
about the two of you and was going to call, but I had to rush back to my
lab. God, what a summer I've had,"
he said, half in excitement and half with a sense of: My task is done and now I'm home.
"Well?"
I asked, waiting for him to say something further.
"Well
what?" he replied.
"Your
story. You said you were going to tell a
story."
"Of
course. But one needs time. I've just returned, I must rest and drink some wine, talk and
visit with friends; moreover, I've not
eaten yet; and if I am to relate to you
the events of the summer, I need lots of food to give me energy. Later, we shall go out to eat and then over
some coffee and cognac, I will share with you both my most unusual and highly
successful project. It's so good to be
with familiar faces and places. I've discovered
that I no longer enjoy extensive travel and residences away from San
Francisco. Odd. And to think I've got half my head somewhere
in outer space, but I don't want to leave home--so to speak. Am I getting parochial in my advanced years,
my friends?" he said, with a jocular tone in his voice.
"Alexei,
you're keeping me on pins and needles," said Emily. "What's all the mystery about?"
"You
misunderstand me, my dear. There is no
mystery. It is science, pure and
simple. I'm not a mystic. I deal in the proven laws of the
universe. I assure you--all in due
course. Now all I want to do is
play. Damn it, I've worked so hard. Pour me another glass and let old Alexei be
transformed by the blood of Bacchus!" he said, jovially, lifting up his glass
as Emily refilled it. "To science
and to the greatest scientist: that
ancient one who created wine--now that was some scientist, don't you think
so?" with which he drank a hearty toast, and, putting his glass down said,
"If you will allow me to sleep for one hour, then I will take us all out
to dinner to that Basque restaurant, Des Alpes, on Broadway. You can meet me there. You know where it is, no?"
"Yes, I
know it. How about you, Emily?"
"Okay by
me. Will you give us our presents after
dinner?"
"No, but
right now. You're welcome to stay and
open them," say saying, he went to the duffle bag, opened it and carefully
pulled out several boxes of various sizes until he found ours and put them
aside, them handed them to us. 'Now I am
off for my nap. One hour. Until later, then," and Alexei plodded
off to his bedroom.
Emily
unwrapped a shiny black piece of pottery with a beautifully incised design of
Indian symbols. She looked underneath
and read out loud, "Maria Martinez, New Mexico. Oh, isn't it lovely, Anthony. I've always admired her work," she said,
as she gazed in delight at the special gift.
"He surely knows how to please me," she said. "Hurry up, open yours."
I had a box
made out of a dark walnut-like wood;
when I opened it I saw it was lined with purple velvet. In the middle of the velvet was a silver ring
and mounted on the ring was a smooth, rounded turquoise stone. I took it from the box and held it up for
Emily to see.
"It's
beautiful," she said, "put it on," she urged, which I did. It fitted my ring finger of my right hand
perfectly. It was a handsome ring and
the stone stood out majestically. I was
so pleased by his thoughtfulness. I
remember we'd once discussed jewelry, and I'd mentioned my like of turquoise
and silver and Alexei had remembered that.
Emily put her bowl into her purse and we left the apartment very
quietly, shutting the door behind us.
V
Des Alpes
Restaurant delighted us all; after our
seven course Basque meal with wine, we sat drinking cognac and coffee and
eating vanilla ice cream.
"And now,
my friends, I shall give account of myself--if you will so indulge me,"
said Alexei. One thing about him: he was never one to have a preamble to his
raconteuring.
"We drink
first to a good story, and, as the Italians say: 'Se non e vero e ben trovato," I said,
lifting my glass in the air where they joined theirs with mine.
"Here,
here," said Alexei, "very well put, Anthony. I am sure you won't be disappointed. You both know my story about my discovery--I
also know you still think I'm a crackpot, albeit it a loveable crackpot, but
hear me out. I had a lead on some very
sophisticated radio equipment which had been advertised for sale at public
auction at one of the scientific labs, Los Alamos, in New Mexico; so I went there and made the highest bid and
got it for a pittance--a real bargain, considering the millions that went into
the research and development of that equipment.
Nonetheless, I took everything to a mountain cabin I'd rented, and set up
my equipment and antennas. That took a
long time. The calibration alone took me
almost a week because I could only do it at certain times of the early morning,
and then I had trouble with my portable generator's carbon brushes, so I had to
drive almost a hundred miles back and forth for spare parts, install them, then
I had to do some rewiring because of a short.
You can't begin to imagine the little things that need to be done and
that can also go wrong. I forgot to push
one small button and I lost a whole night's work.
"But when
I was finally ready to receive, I had immediate results--the sensitivity of the
apparatus was beyond my own expectation.
I invested most of my money for high tech equipment to continue my work
and I'm not sorry I did it."
When he said
that, I understood why Alexei lived such a modest life; most of his money went into his interstellar
radio project. I had to congratulate him
(silently, of course) on his dedication.
Maybe there was something to all his talk after all. Therefore, I listened intently as he
continued his narration in a sometimes detached manner.
"I had to
go to Puerto Rico to confirm some doubts of my own; and I'll tell you briefly what my concerns
were. Namely: was what I was receiving but an echo of my
own transmission? I had no way to
confirm this; I tried with what
equipment I had, but with no satisfying results. I have an acquaintance, we met at a
convention several years ago and we have carried on an extensive
correspondence. I also helped him with
some complex computations he was working on for his doctorate--so he owed me a
favor. I tell you, my friends, I was in
a frenzy. Was I, at last, to be exposed
a fool--and by myself? Can you
imagine? I thought I'd been deluding
myself. I had to confirm. So I flew down to San Juan with all my
data. I didn't tell my loyal
correspondent the true reason--but neither did I lie to him. At the Arecibo radio telescope, where he
works, they had the kind of computers and instruments I needed to confirm me or
denounce me as a fool. My acquaintance
agreed to give me some of his computer time in the privacy of his office and I
got a pass to use certain instruments and I came away convinced I am the great
genius I say I am! My friends, the
confirmation was that I was not getting my echo or a bounced transmission. No; I
was receiving the signal from a steady source, on the same frequency I had
received it sixteen years before! I flew
back to New Mexico as fast as possible and sent out my own signal and re-analyzed
my data and the patterns of my own signals."
"And what
were they?" asked Emily, who was listening intently, too.
"Originally
I had sent out a series of waves, just like Morse code, dots and dashes, and on
three different frequencies, orchestrated, them, you might say with a long,
continuous wave as a sort of basso continuo, while simultaneously sending
rhythmically, intermittent signals on two other frequencies, as what you might
call my melody and harm,ony. Yes, I like
that, hmm..." He stopped for a
moment and lifted his eyes as if in distracted thought, but quickly reanimated
himself.
"That's a
rather poetic way of putting it--it must be your poetic influence on me,
Anthony, my friend--but where was I?
Yes, the waves were orchestrated--synchronized and what I got back was a
duplication of my original three signals on the same wavelengths and the three
signals all in proper sequence and rhythm!" His voice was dramatic and he leaped up from
where he sat. "The signals I'd
received corresponded one-hundred percent--and only intelligent life could have
duplicated my complex symphony of radio waves!"
"Emily,
Anthony Richmond, I have proof positive to confirm contact with intelligence
not of this planet, not of this solar system!
The proof is irrefutable,. My
data is faultless. I am the new
Christopher Columbus of the age of interstellar communication--a cosmic
Columbus. Perhaps that will be the title
of my book when I chose to write it. A
rather catchy title, if I don't say so myself."
I felt giddy,
caught somewhere between science fiction and being now a part of universal
history along with my sweet Emily. The
very first two people to be told of the awesome confirmation of life beyond our
planet! Man's great question was now
answered--and I imagined the can of worms which would now be opened, and Alexei
would be right in the center of it. He
would have the notice of the whole world for years to come. Suddenly I was frightened by all this
supposed exposure to fame. Both Emily
and I would also become famous through association, and I wasn't too sure I
wanted to be part of it. Or so I thought
at the time.
"Well,"
said Emily, "when are you going to call a press conference?" she
asked most seriously.
Alexei looked
at her with an incredulous look on his face and then his features changed and I
thought he was going to burst into anger, but, instead, he burst into a
paroxysm of guffaws and knee slapping laughter.
His whole body shook in laughter.
It took a while for Alexei to compose himself, and when he did he
announced: "Press conference? You don't understand. All I've done is confirm. I have not communicated any ideas. We've not spoken. That must be very clear, or didn't I make
that clear? Can you imagine just calling
out 'tra, la, la,' to someone and they, copying you? You've not spoken. Oh, you could change 'la' to lu, li, lo,' but
you'd still not have exchanged anything about your ideas or how to plant corn
or compute astronomical figures or exchange formulas. Do you see?"
I saw it and
so did Emily, who rejoined: "Does
that mean you're not going to share this discovery with the world?"
"That's
it exactly. I have to wait another
sixteen years. And during that time I
must figure out a way to communicate more fully, more deeply, and I'm certain
my star friends will find a way to teach me, and I them, each other's
respective languages. I was thinking I
could develop a new way to teach languages--but that's another project. The new semester starts soon. I have to earn some more money to go back to
my New Mexico cabin and send more signals.
Frankly I am not so sure what to do next."
"But by
announcing your work, there wouldn't be any problem about money. Any number of universities or government
agencies would offer you funds, equipment, staff. You could run the whole show and call the
shots," said Emily.
"Don't
you think I know that?" came his reply.
"I come from a place where the government controlled all the
sciences. I want no part of any
government--or university--which is just a scaled down version of a
government. Once you take money from any
source, you are ipso facto beholden to that source. You say 'run the whole show.' That's exactly what I'm going to do and when
I've got the name and address of my dear friends out there," and he jabbed
a finger toward the sky, "I shall announce my discovery to the whole
world. But before I release my glorious
finding, the world needs to concede something to me. My information will be expensive."
I was suddenly
struck almost stupid by what he'd said.
"Alexei, do you mean to sell your findings to the highest bidder
for money? I can't believe you would do
that?"
"Of
course not. I am no mercenary; not a parasite or an opportunist. What will I need money for? No, I will trade my findings for the
unconditional destruction of every source of nuclear power, the immediate
cessation of the mining of uranium and the immediate cessation of the
construction of atomic weapons, and the immediate disarming of them, and a universal
ban on any further bomb testing. When
the world agrees to that, only then will I give the world my findings--every
iota of data. I won't need any of
it."
"But
that's crazy, Alexei," burst in Emily.
"You can't barter on those terms.
Your discovery belongs to the world.
You can't deny the information."
"I most
certainly can and I'm doing just that.
Look at all the good scientists who help create weapons--all kinds of
weapons. Do you think that's noble and
that the information they used was for the good of humanity? Absolutely not. Do not try to appeal to my sense of the
impersonality of scientific information.
It will be revealed under my conditions, or I simply destroy my records
and equipment and retire to some nice quiet spot in the mountains and take up
pottery and trout fishing."
It was then
that I got my burst of a strange idea and I was so excited I could barely
speak. But I got it out. "Alexei, I'm a language teacher, let me
figure out a way to teach them English!"
"Bravo!"
shouted Alexei. "That's the spirit,
maestro--exactly the sort of contribution that could make humanity not so
arrogant, not so centered on itself.
Another manifestation of life on a far planet would shake us to our very
foundations philosophically and there would be, I'm sure, a hundred years of
arguments on whether or not confirmation of extraterrestrial intelligence was
proof that God, or the various gods--did not only create human beings. Yes, Anthony Richmond, a fine idea; and next summer, when I go back to New
Mexico, you shall join me and together we shall take ESL to outer space! And we have this whole year to prepare our first lesson. Oh, la, la, we must celebrate. Come, let us go to a bistro I know and have a
drink to the teacher who brought English to the cosmos."
VI
For days
afterwards I was consumed by my fantasy.
A hundred times I was given distinguished awards by great universities
and learned societies; my face appeared
on the cover of world-famous magazines and I had to hire clerks to answer my
mail and personal bodyguards to keep away the crowds that followed me
around. I gloried in the daydreams until
the first week of the new semester; and
gradually, being once again in front of students and my small coaching groups,
my class preparation, my correcting papers, staff meetings and the like, my
excitement and daydreaming waned, but not my enthusiasm for my proposed
project; and during restful times, I
gave the project considerable thought.
I reviewed all
the current ESL methods of instruction, but I didn't think any of them
workable; and many times I felt
frustrated because I couldn't think of a way to teach entities sixteen light
years away the English language via interstellar radio communication--every
sixteen years.
One of my
greatest frustrations was that I could not send my voice. So I would have to have a most original idea
of instruction.
Then, one day,
as I was sitting in the Caffe Puccini, with my morning coffee, I felt like a
fool. All week I'd been eager for the
summer to come; everyday I would look at
the calendar with the same eagerness students have waiting for summer
vacation--yet, suddenly, in the quiet seven a.m. cafe, I felt as if I were a
dupe in some swindle--not that I thought Alexei had deceived me, no; I'd volunteered my services and now I felt a
perfect ass chasing after star-students--why I was as wacko as Alexei, and I
didn't like him and I didn't like myself and I decided that when I saw him
next, I would tell him that I was withdrawing my offer.
Well, no sooner
had I had that thought when Alexei himself walked in.
"Anthony! So good to see you so early in the
morning. Will you have another
coffee? Ah, I've got an appetite this
morning for just bread and butter. Will
you join me? I'll order two."
"Sure,
another coffee and I'll take you up on the bread and butter, too; then I'd like to talk to you about
something."
"Oh, you
have that look on your face. Something
very serious must be troubling you. Do
you need a loan? Have you and Emily had
some misunderstanding? Tell Alexei. He will try to help. But first we must drink coffee and eat. One is always in a better frame of mind with
a full stomach."
Leave it to
Alexei to put off discovering the secrets of the universe until he's eaten--that's
what used to irk me about him--and which I, also, envied him for: his ability to put off some important thing
for something as common as coffee, bread and butter.
While we broke
bread and munched our home-made foccacetta, made by Dina, the owner-baker, who
served us personally, Alexei kept looking at me with grave, Slavic eyes,
penetrating eyes, which seemed capable of looking into my soul. Sometimes Alexei was very frightening.
He belched
politely into his half-closed hand then lit a cigarette.
"What's
on your mind?" he asked in a good-intentioned voice, and his concern gave
me the confidence to tell him exactly how I felt, which I did, opened my heart
of doubts to him. I was serious.
As I finished,
he roared with laughter. I was insulted
and sat there in a huff waiting for his buffoonery to end; by now I should have known better than to be
affronted by his behavior--that's the way Alexei lived his life. Nevertheless, his laughter ended and I was
ready for him with my counterattack which he defused instantly by turning
spontaneously into the concerned friend.
"Anthony,
I hear how you feel: cheated,
duped--yes, you feel that way, but I am not doing any of those things you feel
to you. You are part of history, great
history, whether you wish to believe it or not.
You must believe, Anthony Richmond, believe Alexei. I am not leading you down a science fiction
trail and you are not a victim of some madman seized by his fantasy. I had a feeling you would have the kinds of
sentiments you've just expressed; maybe
if I were you I'd feel the same way.
Consider your doubts as illusions.
I am your friend, I would not deceive you. I have a high sense of integrity. I have told you only the truth. I swear it."
He spoke with
such warmth, such sincerity that I was touched and once again I felt good about
the project.
"I'm
sorry for having doubted you, Alexei."
"It is
nothing. We must work together and
devote our energies to the task at hand and let go of our egos. We are working for the cosmos! Do you fully understand that and appreciate
that, yet?"
He said that
with that far-off, other-worldly gleam of half madness, half genius which I was
forever witnessing in Alexei.
Very well,
that was the end of that and we got down to some serious, theoretical problems
on the interstellar transmission of language lessons. Just as we were getting started, we were
interrupted; it was Emily. She had a curious look on her face. She stared at Alexei. "Have you been following the news?"
she asked him.
"No; I've not read a paper in days;
and you know I never watch television.
Why do you ask?"
"There's
been a coup d'etat in the Soviet Union.
It looks like communism is on its way out!" she said excitedly.
Alexei grabbed
the newspaper she had been holding, and with his usual intensity began to read
the front page story. "But this is
amazing. I can't believe it. But it is so.
Why...why...I can go home!"
And he burst into tears, and for a long time he wept and spoke only in
Russian. Emily stroked his head and I
rubbed his back and we, all three of us were weeping. Alexei because he could return to his
motherland he pined for and Emily and I in empathy with our friend.
When at last
he had emptied his emotions, he ordered wine--despite the early hour--to drink
a toast to the collapse of the tyranny which had ruled for far too long.
"Now what
will you do?" I asked.
"Do? Why return to the Ukraine--that's what I will
do. Soon we will be independent. They will need good teachers. I must go home. I shall resign, give my landlady notice, pack
my bags and fly to Kiev, my friend, fly to my dear mother and my siblings and
my aunties and uncles and my dozens of cousins.
Oh, I feel as if a great weight has been lifted from my soul."
"But what
about our project?" I ejaculated.
"Our
project? Ho! my dear friend," said
Alexei, who put one of his big arms around my shoulders, "our project,
little brother, will continue if you wish to join me in Kiev. Come, you can live with me. I will help you get an ESL job-no
problem. Emily can come too. I will find her a good position. Alexei still has many connections. And I shall get a position at the university
and we can continue together and bring the destiny of the cosmos to
earth."
I knew I did
not want to leave San Francisco and go live in Kiev in spite of the greatness
of our projected work. No; I would stay because of late Emily and I were
talking seriously about marriage, of buying a house and maybe having some
kids. But I didn't want to say anything
just then to spoil his elation.
As Emily and I
drove back from the airport after having seen Alexei off, we were both crying
because we had lost our good friend.
The other day
I received a long letter and a photograph of Alexei and his family. He wrote:--
"I still
find it hard to believe I am back after so many years of absence. Nevertheless, I am now in contact with my
former boss at the Kharkov Institute; he
is not so skeptical as he once was. So
there is still hope for our project, little brother. I shall keep you informed. In the meanwhile, think of me often. Drink my health with Emily. And if you can, name one of your children
after me. I embrace you from afar.
Goodbye,
Alexei."
THE END